Yvette Johnson is the author of three chapbooks. Her poems can be found in the DMQ Review, Glitter Pony, Chaparral and Bateau. Work is forthcoming in Octopus and Lines + Stars. Thanks to poet Claudia Handler for the notes.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Sunday, September 18, 2011
| couldn't get the tape
off the bottom the door
wedged shut from the inside, even
that | couldn't shake loose in the back the drawer
caught on itself wouldn't open
everything was in there my shoes, my keys, my word, my
dark secrets | was ready to free,
light, burdens, potency, exceptions, fucking
hammer, my out, my there, my analogue,
analogue's analogue, the reception, and the receiving, the deceiving
was in here how many corners were there
on all the surfaces forced to stay still
| moved, finding a familiar place in this
world of closets and rooms.
John Stovall has a B.A. in English from the University of Georgia. He curated the Dog Ear Poetry Series, was the Editorial Assistant at Verse, and is currently working on a series of "poems of addiction." John currently resides in Athens, GA and is the Assistant Editor at the Public School Risk Institute.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
from THE LOVE BOOK
A flower burst in my head speaking in a fever tone. “Fever,” flower said, sobbing from the deepest gifted source. “I miss your far-fetched report.” Rainbow from deep-love singing & singing. In deep-love we sang from a broken bowl. In deep-love our bowl misted many times over. O deep-love o deep-love you sound like a rubbed blaze. Rave, a bloodless rave, with a-nus for lips, red-tinged, tinged red until headlights shone in its heart. Its heart sang & it reached for lungs to laugh their way to martyrdom. A peacock ran with his wolf to the top of the pack. I swear my pack lay flung to the core. Lay flung to the side of the dazzle. Misty blue sky that fills my lungs until my lungs breathe, until the lungs breathing fetched a love in their midst. My love spoke of so much. Hey bonnie bonnie, red ribbon pabst blue plunking at my heart. You called for a prayer-shaped hull and I crashed into you, head bent, legal only unto you. Tender rights intact. Tack-tacking out of my teeth, snar-gum fitting its way into my heart. My love My love: this is how you came through. Like a lap // like a wave // like a slap // like a slave: I hear water dribbling into your head. Must it always end so in // dread? A crack of thunder righted itself.
Monica Mody's work was featured in the Boston Review Poet's Sampler (introduced by Joyelle McSweeney) and has also appeared in West Wind Review, Nether, Cannot Exist, Compost, horse less review, and apocryphal text, among other journals. She is the author of a chapbook, Travel & Risk, from Wheelchair Party, and has a book forthcoming in Fall 2012 from 1913 Press.